


Hand-Embroidered

by SabineElectricHeart (TheLifeAndLiesOfFerns)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Children, F/M, Marriage, Melodrama, Self-Denial, Self-Doubt, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:02:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25312030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLifeAndLiesOfFerns/pseuds/SabineElectricHeart
Summary: She was perfectly etched on his heart, like a silent hand-embroidered cross stitch, waiting patiently for him to forget the times they shared, to banish those feelings to the depths of his mind, even if he never could.
Relationships: Anders/Female Hawke, Female Hawke/Sebastian Vael
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Hand-Embroidered

She was perfectly etched on his heart, like a silent hand-embroidered cross stitch, waiting patiently for him to forget the times they shared, to banish those feelings to the depths of his mind, even if he never could.

She was a noble’s daughter, with fine features and elegant steps, and he was a fugitive, a deserter, something worse than an apostate, an _abomination_. She was something he could never have, never touch, never taste, never smell.

She was the joy of his life, from the first sweet day they met, on the seedy holes of Darktown. He could have sworn, as soon as he saw her, he heard a perfect harmony of violins and birds in the distance, as if his magic sung to her, and he knew he would love her to the last tragic day of her life.

He never did anything about it, in all honesty. He loved her too dearly for it, and demanded of himself to treat her with the utmost respect. She was a noblewoman, after all, and therefore she deserved better than him.

He would always regard her with adoration and hidden affection, no matter what the consequences.

He would stand strong, waiting for attention in the fiercest blizzards, the longest distances, just for her. He would douse the fiercest of flames, just for her, and only her.

Such tragic feelings came to him when she confessed that she loved another, that she was intended for another.

He simply closed his eyes and shook his head sorrowfully.

He gave her his words of congratulations, and, as she raised a hand to comfort him gently, he pushed her away and just left her manor house.

She was not weak, he reasoned with himself, she was not a pushover, subject to other people’s whims. She was the Champion of their city, the power behind the viscount. If she did not want to marry, she would not, regardless of her mother’s and her uncle’s wishes, of societal expectations. She actually loved her fiancé, a rarity amongst her own, and the fact it pleased her family and furthered their interests was no more and no less than a boon.

There was nothing left for him, just tragedy and melodrama.

Silent tears. Betrayed feelings. Stolen love.

Kirkwall’s Chantry temple was beautifully decorated that fateful morning, as the mother of the bride carefully planned the event, strong-arming the sisters and the merchants in town to provide an absolutely heavenly event. Nothing less for a sovereign. Nothing less for her _daughter_.

The attendees were the cream of the crop of the blue-blooded aristocracy from all cities around the Free Marshes, influent merchants, important clerics and military leaders. He sat with their ragtag group of friends, many of which seemed strikingly out of place, yet caring little for it.

The ceremony was long, over three hours of rituals, as the groom insisted to have all the traditional rites. Yet, many of the present seemed not to notice the flow of time, as the vision of it all moved them. Not to mention, the bride and groom were rather musically gifted, providing a rendition of the Chant of Andraste that brought the attendees to a tearful religious fervor.

"Do you, Marian Hawke, Lady Amell, choose to live your life happily with Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven?"

"I do!"

"And do you, Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven, choose to live your life happily with Marian Hawke, Lady Amell?"

"I do."

"You may kiss the bride."

He ran, with his greatest strength, away from the Chantry.

Nothing ever good came from the sisters’ hands, and that whole spectacle only furthered such an impression. His heart ached in agony, it seared with white, cold pain dripping on his veins, and it trembled with depression.

He opened the top buttons of his shirt and ripped his Tevinter Chantry amulet off from his neck, discarding it by throwing it off from the cliffside at the Hightown bazaar. There was no point to dream about a life of freedom up north, there was no point on wonder what could have been.

Years pass, the Prince reclaims his position, with invaluable support of his princess, and they leave the city with their heads held high. They settle at their fief, and he hears the travelling minstrels singing them praise, heralding their august reign.

He was never able to give up on his feelings, even in the future, where she invited him up to her city, on the occasion of her firstborn's first birthday celebrations, her darling heir to the throne.

He sighed.

She was never going to be available now, she was never going to be free of Starkhaven, of the crown. She would never return. He would never get his happy ending.

To him, she was everything.

To her, he was a friend, a confidante, a valuable ally.

Yet, to the both of them, they were a pair of soulmates that never got their happy ending. He was etched in a corner of her heart, never surfacing to face the music, never developing the due feelings.

She was etched firmly into his heart and soul, waiting silently, just like an unfinished cross stich, abandoned by a small child.

He turned around and dug around in his drawer for his most cherished possession.

It was white, with rainbow colored strings covering the cloth. A replica of the ripped stitched pillow his mother gave him when the Templars took him away, that he lost years ago when he ran away.

He does not remember when, exactly, he told her this story, and he probably downplayed it to avoid the embarrassment, but she payed attention. She took the time to produce a replica and had given it to him on one of his birthdays, saying it was a “good luck charm”, with a knowing smile and bright eyes, sparing him from the exposition in front of their friends.

She never knew that he would cherish the kind offering forever. Or, at least, he would have.

It was of no use to him now. He would dispose of it.

He stopped by Lirene’s Fereldan Imports, to check on new migrant arrivals, and on the way out, tossed the hand-embroidered cloth into the donation box.

The next day, one of the workers sorted the donations.

"What is this beautiful cross stitch doing here?"


End file.
